


Never Enough

by peppersnake



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, idk if theres a tag for it but, like storms or earthquakes and stuff, ok so this is my first boom kachow at angst, when they get emotional minor natural disasters happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-07 14:35:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20818922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppersnake/pseuds/peppersnake
Summary: The night sky lit up for a second and what followed sounded a lot like the end of the world (but they had already been there & done that)...Their relationship, at its core, relied upon the hypotheticals and "if it comes down to it"'s. Regrettably, they never thought it would have actually come down to it.





	1. Chapter 1

It had become a tradition now, Aziraphale would tidy his bookshop, as expected, and his demon would pop in to bring some kind of present—usually treats, a book, alcohol, a ride, alcohol—something along those lines, at least. It was appreciated, and most often, rewarded—a kiss, wing grooming, _unholy _activities, that rare perfect smile the angel gives him when he knows he's done something very, very right—all very welcomed and deserved praise. And so, on time, enter Crowley. All angles and sharp edges, snake eyes and serpentine figure. His inverted triangle form begging to be used. He knew it, too, had used it to his advantage in numerous temptations over the past six millennia. Using that demonic charm around Aziraphale was exclusively habit. Or, at least, that's what he told the angel when he (again, absolutely out of habit!) sauntered into the bookshop with take-out swung carelessly over his shoulder and his snake hips jutting about _ quite _ desirably, before customarily _ accidentally _bumping and pushing Aziraphale into the bookshelf he was currently stationed at, thrusting the plastic bag onto his chest. 

"Got your lunch," His snake tongue _habitually _flicking onto the angel's properly shocked lips, the sentence drawn out as if each separate word was a sentence in and of itself. He dangled the bag tantalizingly in front of him and the angel took it with his usual warm & innocent smile, as if unaffected by Crowley's attempts at seducing him. As though they had done it hundreds of times before, they sat comfortably on the worn furniture of the bookshop and ate. Without looking up, Aziraphale miracled Crowley's shades off with a snap of his fingers. They've done the ritual quite a few times, and the angel thought it best to get it over and done with magic rather than coax him into it which inevitably would and always did result in an argument. He was wrong, however, as this too, resulted in an argument. 

* * *

"There is no _point _to wearing them around me Crowley, much less indoors! They're sunglasses!"

"It's for comfort! Regularity! Consistency!—"

"I _ don't _ want to hear it, sunglasses off in the bookshop."

"You are so per_snickety. _" The demon stood now, saying those last syllables like one would imagine a talking snake might—or, well—whatever.

"_ Yes, _I'm _picky, _but that doesn't change the fact that you're unreasonable." Aziraphale stood (or rather, sat) his ground, taking a bite of his food.

"Unreasonable?" Hands flew into the air and then into his hair, a groan of frustration emitting from the overdramatic bowels of a demon. 

"Sit down, Crowley,"

"You are so, so—"

"Spit it out, then."

His chest swelled and Aziraphale could feel the heat come off of him. "so—_aarrgh_!" His hands pulled at his hair.

"You're being, ah, what's the word? Yes, a drama queen. Now, sit down,"

"Oh, _I'm _a drama queen? Funny that, coming from the one who manages to make such a deal over _sunglasses_ every damned day." His tone was mocking but sinister, still innocent bickering but on the border of tipping over.

"Yes, Crowley, you're a drama queen," He put his fork down now, dabbing a napkin to his face before continuing. "_ You _ are the one who _ always _ manages to make a big deal about _everything _ ." Ah, and there it went, innocent bickering tipped over now to outright dispute. There's still one more turn they have to take before they're reallyinto it, just hope nobody—

"At least I don't feel the need to stick my _nose _into everything, but you wouldn't know _anything _about that, would you, angel?" 

And there it went, it's past playful banter and arguing, and has gone into the final and fatal stage of strike-you-where-it-hurts.

"Well, maybe if I didn't _disappear _at the slightest _mention _of emotional vulnerability."

Crowley unlocked his jaw in a scoff, "You should be glad I don't_ endlessly _complain about every little thing until it gets fixed for me because it's a-ll about _ me! _" Crowley snarled, gesturing his hands all over.

Aziraphale stood now, nostrils flared and expression far beyond a pout. They were getting into dangerous territory now. "Maybe if I didn't cling onto the only beacon of hope in my lo-ng immortal life of_ tragedies _and _rejection _I wouldn't be so damned sensitive and unpredictable!"

Crowley scoffed, switching the narrative. "I wasn't a good enough angel, and now I'm not even good enough of a demon," He all but roared. "Is that what you think, Aziraphale? That I'm _clinging _ onto you because I'm _insecure_?" 

"No. That's what _you _think, though. Isn't it?" Aziraphale snapped, a virulence in his voice Crowley had never heard before.

"Watch yourself there, angel," Crowley warned. He was apprehensive, that much one could tell, even through his flat monotone voice. 

"Oh? So now it's my fault for actually addressing your blatant identity crisis?" Aziraphale said, his voice raised now. Crowley huffed, angry and shocked the angel would stoop so low. Aziraphale cut him off:

"You're just stubborn you were never _enough_. _ " _

That last word was pronounced sharp, slow and thickly, dripping with ethereal venom that cut it's way into the air before it could be taken back, seeping into Crowley and suffocating him. Aziraphale, realizing the weight of those words as soon as they had been spoken, held his arms out as if to catch Crowley's raw essence. It had been ripped out of him, you could see it in his eyes—Aziraphale nor Crowley had ever witnessed it happen, but the endlessly burning golden of his eyes now dilated with ebony deeper than any other demon's optics ever before—even Hastur's blank stare was uncomparable to the void that now replaced Crowley's. It was like a drop of ink trickling its way into a glass of water, and like the smoke of a massive forest fire fading into the air, it filled the glass until no light could shine through. His eyes now matched the shade of his color-blocking sunglasses.

The night sky lit up for a second and what followed sounded a lot like the end of the world (but they had already been there & done that). In that split second, Aziraphale could see Crowley's true, raw form—it was trying to coax him out of his shell shock, the penetrant being Aziraphale's words, and how he so wish he could have aimed it at himself. Their relationship, at its core, relied upon the hypotheticals and "if it comes down to it"'s. Regrettably, they never thought it would have come down to it.

Aziraphale stood, helplessly. Apologies pounded in his chest and throat as if he were going to puke and sob them out, but instead, he just stood there, similarly, in shock; at the words that had forced their way out of his mouth, and at the complete transformation Crowley had at them. Aziraphale knew he was never good at confrontation or accepting things just the way they were (part of how he was miraculously able to keep that damned Bentley so sound for so many years) and it was all starting to unfurl before the both of them. Crowley was so dreadfully _delicate_, surprisingly, for a demon. Not necessarily a bad thing—in fact, Aziraphale was quite fond of this trait—but at times, it could drive Crowley to be relentlessly destructive with his emotions, which pained Aziraphale so, so much to see. Especially when he'd stroll casually into the bookshop with puffy eyes, bruised knuckles, and that particular stinginess akin to a skittish cat.

He wanted so badly to just _ help _him, to cradle and love him, but he knew—just as much as Crowley needed to be loved, he also needn't be overwhelmed, because he would sooner bolt than open up to Aziraphale (there had been far too many instances of that.) Despite this, Aziraphale blames it on himself—not picking up on any of Crowley's signs throughout the past six millennia, nor upon finding out, doing anything about it—despite how much he wanted to, _God _ did he want to—in fear of his superior's everlasting judgment and, by extension, he and Crowley's eternal damnation. So now, having been given the freedom to shamelessly love Crowley forever and ever until the end of time, he is understandably a little excited to do so. Crowley, however, has paced himself over the ages and is used to being let down, so the new influx of enthusiastic divine love is naturally a bit much for him. Aziraphale just wishes he could let Crowley know how much he means to him, and the words expressed by the both of them here tonight were _not _an accurate representation of that love.

Crowley put on his shades, moving so slowly Aziraphale thought the whole world was in slow motion. He saw him open his mouth to say something and then recognized the moment where he thought against it and began the cumbersome trek to the door.

"Crowley, wait." The demon slowed, not stopping, as if bargaining the advantages and disadvantages of what was to come next. Aziraphale caught up to him as he reached the door, and instead of reaching out for him, he stretched his arm around to gently, grudgingly open the door for him. 

"I'm very sorry," Aziraphale felt guilty for having his eyes fixed to the floor, unable to look at the black orbs that replaced the familiar canary yellow ones. "Take as much time as you need. I will be here when you're ready. To talk. " He swallowed and looked up at the dead stare boring into his holy being. It pained both of them, the intermixing of their auras by such a sudden and direct contact.

"I love you." These words pained them both, even more, the weight and honesty of them piercing them to their very being. He could both see and feel Crowley tense, choke, and let the pain sink in, all in one instant. His hand balled, then opened, and then dug into his pocket as Crowley whipped out his shades and disappeared among the unfamiliar lot of people on the street. Aziraphale watched him go, longingly, as Crowley had done before on several occasions in the past six thousand years. Aziraphale knew he would never be able to fully understand him, could never step into his shoes and see what his emotional trauma was and how it burdened him. Falling is an indescribable experience, especially if you're utterly opposed to even speak on the topic. Aziraphale liked to tell himself that it would just take time, that he needed to adjust himself before being able to open up to him. But he's starting to lose hope. The times he has told Crowley how much he loved him, practically drilled it into his brain, and only now Aziraphale has noticed he has never said it back. He's shown affection, yes, that is the demon's specialty. But a relationshiprequires_ verbal _communication, and that is by no means Crowley's strong suit. Aziraphale surrendered to his overthinking, reclining uncomfortably against an unwelcoming and lonely couch in a bitter and desolate atmosphere, and somewhere else Crowley was returning to his cold, unforgiving apartment after having nearly crashed the Bentley. 

Later that night, an angel would prepare tea and leave it out cold and forgotten, and a demon would crack the concrete walls of a prison he invented for himself.


	2. More Than Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You have always been enough," Aziraphale said through perfect sobs. "More than enough."

Right on time (according to the new second volume of Agnes' prophecies), a knock came at the door. Under any other circumstances, it would have swung open and a lanky demon would have sauntered his way in as if he owned the place. But, as to be expected from the events that had taken place only 3 days ago, it's safe to say their routine customary formalities had been set back. An utterly nasty fight, it was—The downside of knowing and loving someone for six thousand years was, unfortunately: you know just what to say to make it hurt.

Aziraphale all but fell over himself getting to the door, he had been, after all, anticipating  _ any  _ kind of communication from Crowley in those everlasting 72 hours. As he reached the door he tried to compose himself but was instantly taken aback by the brooding aura on the other side of the door. Crowley had been  _ thinking _ , and that was the most dangerous thing for a demon to do. He cleared his throat, ran a hand through his non-diminishing angelic hair, and opened the door with a brave face (or, at least, the bravest he could muster.)

"Hullo, angel." 

Blast it, anyway. Any braveness or confrontational intent Aziraphale hoped in possessing drained out of him and his whole body shook with the tenacity alike to a fleet of angels dousing a demon in holy water. He had so many things he wanted to say his lip quivered under the weight of it all. His eyes filled with the wetness of the memories taken place that night, yet all his mind screamed of was that he could  _ not  _ be weak right now, not in front of him, not when he needed him most. 

"Come in, dear." 

* * *

It was shocking how small the demon was when he wasn't actively trying to take up as much room as possible. What was even more shocking was how he removed his sunglasses without being even remotely prompted—which in any other situation would have made Aziraphale overjoyed—albeit now he felt quite ridden with guilt. He  _ was  _ relieved to see his eyes were no longer littered with the dismal emptiness that plagued them last they met. When he took a seat, the angel gingerly placed a cup of tea in Crowley's wounded hands as if he were a statue and unable to do so himself. Trembling, Aziraphale took a seat opposite of him.

"You—um, you really don't have to take off the sunglasses—if you don't want to, dear." He barely managed to get the words out, yet so many more strangled his throat.

"'S fine." Crowley rasped, taking a sip of the tea because what else was he supposed to do?

Aziraphale let out a few sharp exhales and faltered sniffles and it all fell apart from there. The first few tears were like water wedging their way through cracks in concrete, before bursting their way through out of the dam. 

"Oh, Crowley, I'm so sorry, I—"

Crowley, on the other hand, was a much less elegant crier. When he sobbed there was a rawness to it, nothing that compared to the perfect crystals swimming over an angel's clear skin.

"Please, angel, I can't do this." 

There was that tone in his voice that manifested wounds beyond fresh, wounds that had been scabbed over and mercilessly picked at until infected.

Aziraphale stood now, knuckles bone white as he clutched to the little mug with angel wing handles. "I need you to know—"

Crowley promptly shot up, the cup he was nursing seconds ago now abandoned on the coffee table.

"What more is there to know that we don't already? We've  _ known  _ for six thousand years now—"

"Crowley," Aziraphale's features twisted. "What are you talking about?"

The demon took such a deep, sharp inhale the angel thought he might roar at him. 

"I am  _ vile _ , Aziraphale!" His yellow eyes flared until he could no longer see the whites of his eyes. "I am a nasty,  _ vile  _ creature." He clawed at his chest as if to dig out his very core. "Disgusting, foul, despicable—" He choked and abruptly it looked as if a stupendous force had hit his body, and he spontaneously collapsed backward onto the sofa _ . _

" _ Unlovable. _ " Was his final croak.

Aziraphale gasped and his wings flared out involuntarily and instinctively to protect and console him, something of which hadn't happened since the early times, (when angels with wings and such appearing among humans were a lot more commonplace) upon seeing a child outcast by their family. A divine love so strong embraced Crowley that it felt as if he went under a comatose state wherein the only sensation authorized to feel Wast Love Both f'r Thine Self and Eke Any of Whom May Showeth Love to thee. The overriding feeling of it all, though, was that every sentiment had proved true. An angel, at their core, is constructed of honesty exceptional to any other being. A lie would be a fault in their ethereal systems, detrimental to the ineffable plan and thus rendering an angel disrupted. And what was Crowley, if not for a disrupted angel, that saw simply no harm in an occasional Lie, and wanted nothing more than to be Loved?

When the embrace split (by Aziraphale own accord, as he thinks he might've broken Crowley had he held onto him with that power for too long) they were both in tears. Aziraphale, with perfectly manicured hands, gripped the unshaven stubbly face of his demon.

"You have  _ always  _ been enough," Aziraphale said through perfect sobs. " _ More than enough _ ." 

Albeit not in his true angelic form it sounded as if an entire angelic choir had harmonized with him on that last note, gripping Crowley's somber and traumatized aura, caressing it as if it were The Book. Crowley had a death grip on Aziraphale's taupe coat, shaking violently from the sheer force applied to his core just then. He sat, still below the warmth of the angel as he began to come to. He fought for a breath he didn't need but considered would be nice, and used it to let out a strained "Azsss—ngk—!" before the angel gave him a feather-light kiss that lay heavy on his soul, crashing over him with another wave of the purest form of love ever conceived. Once he surfaced on the metaphorical waters of Aziraphale's love he gulped a big breath before letting another surge of it wash over the ruins of his heart. He managed to pry his eyes open and look up to the angel flooding the room and his demon with holy light. His golden eyes were pleading and the celestial brightness dimmed upon seeing it. 

"Dear," The angel started, vocals still backed up by his chorus of soprano angels. He cleared his throat and his raw form diminished along with the lights, leaving only his heavy wings cradling the demon under him. 

"'Sss—too  _ much."  _ Crowley choked, eyes now squeezed shut and his hands grabbing at the air in front of him as his snake eyes flicked out of control, rendering him momentarily sightless. The angel flushed and softened, nudging Crowley onto his back with his wings. He ran gentle fingers through auburn-brown crisps of hair and felt the entity under his hand gradually relax. 

"'M sorry," The figure under him suddenly croaked. "For the Mistake."

"Mistake?" Aziraphale's brow furrowed and his features changed as realization dawned on him like humans learning they could breathe involuntarily. Crowley was talking about the Fall. "Oh, my dear." He pulled him into a tight embrace before remembering their boundaries. 

"I love you so much more this way." The angel sighed, admiring his demon from above in a perfect vantage point. Crowley's head slowly turned away from the cushion of the couch to stare at Aziraphale, mouth agape. The angel seemed to suddenly realize what he said as well and widened his eyes in shock of those words, mind racing through all the thoughts of his loyalty to Crow—no, the  _ heavens _ and his savior Cro— _ God _ and how much he— _ She  _ did for him and—

"I mean it." He rushed, rather loudly, as if trying to speak over the thoughts ringing in his ears. He gulped and Crowley slowly sat up to hold his face. He was trying to say something, you could see it in his eyes. The words never came, so Aziraphale gingerly kissed him and the missing words flooded into him like the close of an angel's psalm. 

"The archangels and their lot were all bloody bastards anyway." Spat Aziraphale after breaking the embrace, much to Crowley's dismay as he tried to shimmy up to his level to preserve that closeness. 

And from that statement, all at once, something shifted inside Aziraphale. His eyes gleamed a little darker, his holy aura dimmed just a notch, and if you looked close enough... a matte-black feather began to develop among the silvery-white ones.

And Somewhere, far above, God smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wo wo there it is :-) i might make a chapter 3 ? it doesnt really need it but i did leave room for it so idk ! but please any kind of feedback is super appreciated i will love u forever!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> if this is well received i have some ideas for a part 2 !! im braindead so please any feedback and commentary is super appreciated :-* tumblr is @peppersnak3 <3


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